


The Babysitter Experience

by SparksOfDesire



Series: Little!John [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Babysitting, Caregiver!Sherlock, Cuddling & Snuggling, Disney Movies, Established Relationship, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Sherlock Holmes Friendship, Greg Lestrade-centric, Greg's pancakes, Implied Platonic bed-sharing, Insecurity, Little Headspace, M/M, Mentions of Accidents/Wetting, Mentions of Reichenbach Feels, Nicknames, Non-Sexual Age Play, Not Canon Compliant, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Stuffed Animals with uncreative names, The Lion King - Freeform, babysitter!Greg, colouring, daddy!sherlock, little!john, pull-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-15
Updated: 2019-03-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 16:37:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18123800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparksOfDesire/pseuds/SparksOfDesire
Summary: Greg babysits. Enough said.***Don't like age-play, don't read; no hard feelings!





	The Babysitter Experience

**Author's Note:**

> I. Am. Back. It. Has. Been. SO. Long. I'm. Sorry!!!!!!!
> 
> Whew. A lot of people were waiting for this. So here it is, as promised, the babysitting-fic! <3

Gregory Lestrade woke up with a jolt as his phone went off at four in the morning.

Disoriented and slightly panicked from being pulled from his slumber so violently, the DI blindly reached for his nightstand, knocking over a lamp and his reading glasses, before his fingers closed around the screaming device.

He squinted at the screen, the harsh light burning in his eyes, and was already readying himself for a work emergency. Solving crimes was a job that never really went to sleep, and that had been a risk he had been well aware of right from the start. Still, he wasn’t much of a morning person, not that this ungodly hour could be counted as ‘morning’.

His vision was still blurred, but once he could make out the ‘Sh’ he already knew who called him. Of course. Who else?

 

Greg rubbed the last bit of sleep out of his eyes and swung his legs over the side of his bed while he pressed the ‘receive call’ button.

It was unusual for Sherlock to call.

Mister Genius himself preferred to communicate via text messages, too impatient to wait for the verbal responses of his conversation partners. A call from Sherlock usually meant something was off or going awry; like being trapped by a serial killer or almost drowning in the Thames (that had been one of Sherlock’s most remarkable stunts, it deserved a ten on the ‘Deadly stupid, yet infuriatingly brilliant’ scale Greg always kept handy in his day-to-day interactions with the consulting detective).

Either way, it meant trouble for Greg, so the DI felt a small thrill run up his spine when he pressed the phone clumsily against his ear.

 

“Ye-“

“Would you be amendable next weekend?”

 

Several seconds passed in which Greg simply sat and stared at the silver of early morning light filtering through the gap between his blinds; wondering dumbly if he was still asleep, if this was a very realistic dream.

Not once in several years of friendship had Sherlock…

  1. a) …called him for anything that couldn’t be fatal or life-threatening.
  2. b) …made plans with him more than an hour in advance.



And c) … started a sentence with a modal verb that didn’t suggest an immediate demand.

 

“Do you know what time it is, Sherlock?”

“It is 04:10; 04:10 and 25 seconds, if you want to be precise. There’s a clock on your phone, too, should you get confused.”

 

Greg sighed and let himself fall back on the bed. It was way too early to deal with Sherlock’s… well, Sherlock-ness. The rush of excitement left him and instead he was hyperaware of how tired he still was.

“What do you want?” he groaned, already maneuvering back under the covers.

 

As it turned out, that was exactly the wrong response (the right one being telling Sherlock gently but firmly to sod off; that whatever was on his mind could wait until morning; _actual_ morning), for it encouraged Sherlock to switch into one of his infamous monologues.

Greg closed his eyes and willed himself to listen to the information thrown his way (something about a scientific conference in Cardiff, something about a speech, something about fucking tobacco ash). At some point, he heard quiet rustling and the gruff annoyed tone of a very tired John Watson cursing something incoherent, followed by more rustling and a door being shut. Sherlock, apparently, had been thrown out of his own bedroom; something that amused Greg enough that he managed to stay focused for another ten minutes.

 

When still no end was near after the ten minutes had passed, the DI snapped: “I’m losing my patience here, mate. What. Do. You. Want. From. Me?”

There was a brief pause at the other end of the line and Greg felt a little bad for being so harsh with Sherlock. He simply couldn’t help being so… well Sherlock-like; his mind worked differently, much faster, with a higher capacity, latching onto every little detail and presuming everyone around him would want to know all the details, too. He was used to it by now and he was well accustomed to just let Sherlock talk himself out, because it guaranteed to make him feel better and thus be a lot more civil for the rest of the day.

But sacrificing the 120 minutes he still had left to catch some shut-eye for Sherlock to get to the fucking point was crossing a line. He was a patient man, he _was_. But this was borderline masochistic.

 

“It’s a little weekend. John and I thought it might be a good opportunity to try out the babysitting, if you’re still up for it.”

 

Man, now Greg _really_ felt like a jerk for snapping at Sherlock like that.

He could vividly picture the genius laying in bed, going over every little detail of the plans until he felt satisfied and how eager he must have been to call, to check in with him. He was painstakingly familiar with Sherlock’s moods, how little patience he had with things that were important to him.

And this whole age-play ting, evidently, was _very_ important to him.

Greg only caught the gist of it from conversation snippets over the past months (and he was polite enough not to pry into his friends’ personal life), but he knew that John and Sherlock had worked up a regular age-play routine that seemed to work wonders for both of them, from what Greg could judge. John was happier than he had been in the past year and even Sherlock’s peculiar temper had been more mellow than usual.

 

The DI rubbed over his face and softened his voice, allowing it to be the husky, warm timbre it usually was right after he woke up.

“Yeah, of course I am. Don’t worry.”

He heard a small huff of breath on the other end of the line and a quiet “I wasn’t worried.” that totally sounded like a lie.

Greg smiled a little. Despite all the Sherlock-ness, he couldn’t help but feel protective and caring towards the younger man. He was way too fond of this impossible git for his own good.

“I’m free, you can count me in,” he then added with a sense of finality, hoping that now the conversation was moving towards its organic end and he could sleep some more.

 

 “Great-“And Sherlock leaped right into another one of his monologues, which wasn’t- despite being packed with useful information- any less obnoxious in the early hours of the morning.

Well.

It was _Sherlock_ he was talking to; the organic end of a conversation obviously didn’t exist in his world.

 

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Greg thought to himself, before he interrupted Sherlock (something that the younger man _hated_ beyond compare).

“Meet me in my lunch break. Two in the afternoon, not a second earlier.”

“But-“

 “Feel free to bring sandwiches.”

“Lestrade-“

 “ _Goodnight_ , Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t brought sandwiches, instead he brought a lecture.

And made Greg take notes, like he was some absolute idiot, who couldn’t hold onto the most basic facts. All things considered, that was probably how he appeared to Mr. Genius, the DI mused as Sherlock waltzed to the door.

Really, despite the ridiculousness of it all, it was nice to see Sherlock care about something other than murder.

 

As Saturday morning rolled around, Greg was actually a teeny-weeny bit glad that Sherlock was into over-sharing all the details. He wasn’t nervous per se, but it had hit him when he was seated at the couch of 221B Baker Street, that this was kind of a big deal. It was something incredibly intimate and private his friends (most of all, John) asked him to be a part of and he hated the thought of failing them in any way.

Aside from the morning John and Sherlock had spend at his flat, he only had ever seen ‘little John’ once. A smuggler investigation lead them right into the London Zoo, and after the case was over, the doctor had asked in a very small voice if they could stay and look at the animals. Judging by the way he was fussing right now, Sherlock must have died on the inside from nervous energy but had remained cool and collected on the outside in the face of John being little in public (well, semi-public).

While he was sure he’d get along well with all versions of his friend, and Greg had found little John absolutely adorable, Sherlock had always been with them. As far as he knew, John had never fully regressed when Sherlock wasn’t around, so it was a big step for everyone involved.

 

Greg cleared his throat and wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans discretely (he whooped out his finest Dad-outfit for the occasion; faded jeans and a flannel), hoping that Sherlock wouldn’t notice. It wouldn’t do any good to feed into the mental freak-out that the man was clearly having but tried not to show it.

He was stood by the door- coat and everything- and fiddled with the collar of a terribly embarrassed looking John Watson.

“The speech is scheduled for five pm,” Sherlock said for the forth time since Greg arrived, “I’ll call you before bed. I’ll text Greg once I’ve arrived in Cardiff.”

Here, he gave the DI a sharp look, who obediently held up his phone for the control-freak to see. John, as Greg learned, was only allowed to use his phone in emergencies when in little headspace, since the whole point of the exercise was to reduce the stresses of adult life- always being contactable being one of them.

 

The cab driver honked for the second time, clearly getting impatient.

“You should get going,” John murmured softly, focusing his gaze onto the top button of Sherlock’s impeccable black designer shirt. A rosy blush colored his cheeks.

Sherlock gave him a look that Greg recognized from the countless of new parents he had met over the years. Complete adoration and unmasked terror.

“I’m not going until I know you’re okay, lovebug.”

“I’m fine,” came the quiet reply and by the tone to it, it wasn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation this morning.

Which, when you thought about it, was a completely reasonable assumption when it came to Sherlock. He wasn’t hiding his ticks very well in moments like these.

 

“If something happens, _anything at all_ , you call me immediately.“ Although Sherlock was now holding onto John’s shoulders, his gaze bore into Greg imploringly, screaming ‘I’m trusting you with my precious baby, don’t fuck this up!’.

Despite his nervousness, Greg rolled his eyes. “You know I’ve raised children, right? _Actual_ children, two of them. Turned out just fine.” Sherlock was being far too over-dramatic for his taste. Geez, he was a father and a DI- have some faith.

 

Sherlock looked like he was about to slap him.

“I promise, Sherlock,” Greg relented, hoping to mollify the antsy detective. 

The genius flared his nostrils for another second, but deflated quickly, seeing reason. He looked like he didn’t want to leave at all.

John looked like he was ready to move this situation forward, either way.

 

Sherlock sighed and pursed his lips, meeting John in a slightly more childish version of their usual goodbye-kiss, that made an adorable little ‘mwah’ sound at the end (here, Greg looked away to give them some privacy, but grinned to himself. Sherlock Holmes being all cute and tender, who would have thought?!).

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Shuffling indicated that Sherlock had pulled his partner in for another hug, holding him protectively against himself. Greg was hyper-aware that he witnessed and extremely tender and vulnerable moment between them and felt humbled.

They let him into their lives just like that; allowed him to see parts of them that nobody else had ever gotten to see. Greg’s heart grew ten sizes when he thought that the three of them almost made like a strange sort of family. John and Sherlock certainly felt like brothers to him, more so than his biological brother.

Now he was determined to make this the best possible experience for all of them.

 

The door creaked open and Greg hurried to stand behind John, to be a safe presence immediately available, should the man feel upset by his partner’s departure. Separation anxiety wasn’t a new trouble of John’s, and Greg was unsure how it’ll play out once he was in a more vulnerable mind-set. Better have a bear-hug prepared and ready.

Sherlock was already on the first step, when he turned one last time, watching them both stand in the doorframe.

“Be good for Daddy, yes?” He asked softly; in the most tender voice Greg had ever heard him use. It was dramatic, but so genuine that Greg felt a little pull in his stomach. He was getting sappy in his old age.

“Yes,” John echoed meekly, looking a little lost.

“We’ll be fine,” Greg jumped in, placing a warm hand on John’s uninjured shoulder. He could feel the tense muscles relax a fraction under his palm. “Have a safe journey!”

Then, with another flourish of his coat, Sherlock was gone.

 

The sound of the door closing was loud in the quiet room.

Both men just stood and stared at it stupidly for a couple of seconds, the reality of the situation dawning on them.

Greg tore his eyes away from the door to watch John instead; John, whose posture was tense and who fidget with the big wooden button of an oversized wooly cardigan, which Greg had never seen him wear before. Now that he payed attention to it, none of the clothes were ones which he had seen John wear before, hence they must be what Sherlock had dubbed John’s “little clothes”. Somehow, Greg would have imagined them to be more child-like, but it made sense that they were just a slightly different version of what John normally wore. Anyhow, the rich royal blue of the wool made John’s eyes pop and the artsy elephant print with lots of colorful patterns of the graphic tee made him look younger than Greg had ever seen him. It was a good look on him- but Greg bargained it would look even better if John was as comfortable as his clothes looked.

 

The silence stretched and thickened, until the DI figured that he’d be the one to take charge of the situation. ‘Right, time to work with some Dad tricks,’ Greg thought to himself.

“I like your shirt. Elephants are cool.”

As if struck, John jerked out of his thoughts and looked down (to check what he was wearing again, most likely, which was simply adorable). His cheeks colored and Greg had the feeling that the reality of being in headspace, of allowing another person to see this intimate part of him, hit John in that very moment. The little doctor nodded in acknowledgment and muttered an almost inaudible “thanks”, but his eyes flickered briefly to Greg’s face, as if to check if absurdly this would be the moment where Greg decided that this whole age-play thing was too crazy for him. Greg fought the urge to roll his eyes. Only John Watson could manage to have a mental crisis over a cardigan and a graphic tee.

“You like animals?” Greg asked, trying to get his friend to loosen up and start talking. He had imagined John would be very shy at first- he had been the two other times he had seen him in headspace. In asking about a topic Greg knew John was animated about (if his enthusiasm at the zoo was anything to go by), he hoped in easing the tension surrounding them.

This was supposed to be a relaxing and healing experience for John, after all.

 

The John in question shuffled a little with his feet and still refused to look at Greg, but instead of making this even harder on both of them, pointed at the coffee table, which was scattered with some coloring books and crayons (of course. Sherlock would never leave anything to chance).

Each and every one of them was animal-themed, answering Greg’s question in a non-verbal, but very charming way.

“I guess that means yes, huh?”

He walked over to the coffee table and made a big show of inspecting the books (and had to admit, the designs had improved quite a bit since the last time he had bought coloring books for his girls, decades ago).

“You’ve got quite the collection,” he remarked and smiled in John’s direction. “Would you like the color a bit? Until we’re all nice and settled?”

John shrugged but sank to the floor obediently, flipping the nearest available coloring book open at a random page and reached for the box of crayons.

Greg sat down on the couch behind his friend- near enough that John knew he was there, but with enough space between them to not crowd the shy little too much. If Greg knew anything about shy people, it was that giving them some time and space would work wonders in helping them warm up.

He blew a quiet breath to calm his own nerves down a bit. The situation was undoubtedly strange and uncomfortable, but only because they were kind of stiff around each other. Although they had been friends for years, it was like slowly getting to know each other all over again.

 

In pretended nonchalance, Greg reached for the remote and settled more comfortably against the cushions (he had the feeling he might be here a while) and flickered through the channels until he settled for a cheery-looking morning show. The chitter-chatter of the program and the soft tapping of rain against the windows provided a soothing background noise and the budding domesticity appeared to be on the right side of ‘enough to be comfortable, but not too much to be overwhelming’.

Watching John reach for a yellow crayon, Greg felt quite good about himself. He was fairly confident that giving John some space to engage in some activities himself was the right choice here, as his friend seemed to be too self-conscious to engage in much conversation at the moment.

He was a father of two, after all. And headspace or not- it was still John, his best mate.

They’d be fine in no time. And then, they still had the whole day ahead of them to do whatever fun activities John’s heart desired.

He has got this.

 

After an hour had passed, it looked like he may not have this, after all.

Half-way through his second page, the coloring didn’t achieve the soothing effect Greg was going for. Instead, John seemed to be even more fidgety than before.

Greg regarded the tense muscles in John’s back with a frown. His posture was way too stiff to fool anyone he was enjoying himself.

“You okay, buddy?” Greg carefully selected the nickname in the hopes of reassuring John that he was well aware of what he had gotten himself into and that whatever John wanted or needed from him would be just fine.

 

It had the desired effect in a sense that John finally looked him in the face. However, what Greg saw in the face could only be described as the opposite of care-free childishness.

John gave a very deep sigh, clearly frustrated with himself.

 “I’m sorry, man. I’m making this weird… I mean, _weirder_ than it already is.”

He gave a nervous chuckle that didn’t reach his eyes and appeared force. They both knew it and John looked away, embarrassed by his own awkwardness.

“Maybe I should age up all the way to save us the embarrassment…” John told the crayon in his hand, which he turned as if inspecting it very closely. Greg watched John frown at it as if it had all the answers to his problems and stifled a smile. It was plainly obvious that John wasn’t very far off from slipping into his younger headspace, but he was holding back.

 

Sherlock had prompted him for this scenario, so Greg came prepared (he was more and more grateful that he had sacrificed his lunch break for a crash course in age-play 101, although he’d literary eat a vacuum cleaner before he would tell Sherlock).

“You don’t have to be little if you’re not feeling like it. We can just hang out this weekend. I’m fine spending time with you either way.”

Reassurance. Worked every time.

The impact of the words was written all over John’s face, which opened for a split second, long enough for Greg to see the unmistakable sparkle in his eyes.

Gotcha.

 

“I want to, but… I don’t know…. I’ve never been…”

“I get it, buddy. Must be kind of hard without your Daddy around.”

John opened his mouth as if to deny calling Sherlock by this title, but closed it again, when he realized that Greg had in fact witnessed him calling Sherlock exactly that on multiple occasions. Instead, he just nodded meekly. It really was. Sherlock had been the common ground for every single experience he ever had with age-play. Not having him around while slipping into head-space was…. strange (And a little bit scary).

“Anything I can do to help?”

‘Can you make it less scary?’ “…Hug?”

“Sure, one big hug, coming right up.”

Greg got up from the couch and leaned down, wrapping his arms around John’s middle. He felt John exhale slowly against his shirt. They had shared a couple of hugs over the course of their friendship, but not as many as one might believe. Despite his open-hearted nature, John had always shied away from excessive physical contact for reasons Greg couldn’t even being to fathom. But now, he wrapped his arms tightly around Greg’s shoulders and hugged back with such a vigor that it made Greg’s heart grow ten sizes. In a sort of fatherly epiphany (as he would later recall it), the DI remembered a simple trick which always made his girls smile when they were having a hard time with something. It was kind of a stretch, physiologically speaking (ha), but worth a shot (physical fitness was one of the many assets in police work and something Greg prided himself to be excellent in, ‘my body is a temple’ and all that stuff). When the natural end of the hug drew near, instead of letting go, Greg activated his upper body strength and lifted his friend from his sitting position a few inches above the ground. It wasn’t high, all things considered, but he had the element of surprise on his side. John let out a high squeak at the sudden change of scenery before he started to giggle gleefully. Greg grinned to himself and proceeded to do some laps around the living-room, which left the man in his arms in stitches by the time Greg dumped him on the couch.

Greg slumped down beside him and let the happiness now pouring out of his friend wash over him. Looks like the old tricks still worked, after all.

 

When the giggles had died down to a quiet chuckle, the room was bathed in comfortable silence, safe for the morning show, now investigating the “10 ways to make your smoothie a health-bomb” (Greg always had a suspicion that it must have something to do with this Chia-stuff). Idly, he started watching the program, giving John some time to catch his breath.

After several minutes of enthralled telly-watching (turns out it really has something to do with Chia!), John broke the silence in the most appalled tone of voice Greg had ever heard him use: “Green smoothies are _disgusting_.”

The genuine emotion of the statement caused Greg to bellow a laugh before he could stop himself. How could anyone feel so strongly about smoothies?

“They are _good_ for you,” John continued unfazed, “but they taste like they are _haunted_.”

Greg was roaring with laughter, because little John (and there was no doubt that his physical exercise had successfully helped John to slip fully into his little headspace) was the cutest thing.

“Well, it’s true,” John pouted- too hung up on his dislike for green smoothies to remember to be shy and self-conscious around his friend.

“You’re absolutely right,” said friend went to assure him, ruffling his hair playfully.

As if suddenly remembering that this was a ‘weird’ situation, John looked away and blushed bright red. Baby steps, Greg reminded himself.

“Boy, all this talk about breakfast is making me hungry!” he stated overly-enthusiastic, hoping little John would catch the bait. “There’s nothing like a second-breakfast on a lazy Saturday morning.”

He gave John a pointed look, which John was familiar with from countless pub-crawls and brunch meetings. He wouldn’t be able to resist the grin tugging on his lips if he tried.

“I could eat…,” John answered matter-of-factly, idly grinning to himself.

Spending time with Greg _always_ involved food. It became one of the trusty pillars of their friendship, as silly as it sounded. John liked things he could rely on, thing that were always a certain way. It gave him a sense of security in his fast-paced, unpredictable life. And right now. Because despite age-playing for months now, John still had his insecurities around it and they were tenfold when it came to spending time alone with Greg while being little. He had been anxious about it the whole night and the whole morning, although he tried to hide it from Sherlock (as if that was possible), who himself had been a ball of nerves the whole week (John would have found it adorable, if Sherlock wasn’t down-right infuriating when he was nervous). Greg being like he always was and still different helped him a whole lot to get comfortable with this new situation. A tugging in his belly reminded him that he should be insecure or embarrassed about sharing this childish, vulnerable part with anyone who wasn’t Sherlock (or Ella). Trusting people… always had been a struggle. But… it was Greg. And he put real effort into this, which touched John in an unexpected profound matter. He could put some real effort into this, too, John decided. Ignore that stupid voice in the back of his head saying mean, derogatory things.

“…if it’s pancakes.”

Ever since that breakfast over at Greg’s, John’s little side was down-right _obsessed_ with Greg’s pancakes, in all their fluffy, light, buttery goodness. He gave his friend a little side-eye to see him beaming at him like he just told him the moon was made of cheese or something equally awesome. The coil around his chest eased a little. Greg was _really_ putting so much effort into this.  It replaced the nervous tugging in his belly by a happy, fluttery feeling.

“I think I need some assistance, so I won’t make a green smoothie by accident,” Greg stood and held his hand out for John to take. It was that moment when John allowed himself to fully let go.

 

“Can we put chocolate chips in the pancakes?” John asked, while rubbing some astray batter on his cheek. Greg looked up briefly from his task to cut some fruits as a healthy side-dish to give John a raised eyebrow.

“Does your Daddy encourage you to have dessert for breakfast? “

John, who had been sneaking strawberry slices the whole time while Greg pretended not to notice, gave him a berry-red grin. “You remember who we’re talking about, right? Sherlock doesn’t know _anything_ about nutrition. He thinks tea counts as a salad.”

John giggled to himself and Greg melted into pile of mush. Little John, who was now fully in headspace, was just adorable.

“Fair enough,” he relented, not really caring about the nutritional set-backs all that much. Normally, John had a pretty good control over his unhealthy habits, but his little side, apparently, harbored a massive sweet tooth. It was- quite frankly- too cute for Greg to dismiss it. A little chocolate never killed anyone (Well. Except that woman in Leeds- Sherlock had loved this one.). Besides, he kind of wanted to spoil the little guy rotten. Perks of being the cool babysitter.

 

They managed to create a decent pile of pancakes and a whooping serving of fruits with no mayor incidents and it looked like everything was working out just in their favor, when (as usual) something unexpected happened. Greg had made the executive decision that John was big enough to heat his own warm milk in a skillet, which, as it turned out, had been a slight miscalculation (maybe he shouldn’t make executive decisions when he had no idea what the fuck he was doing, but that was just an afterthought). It wasn’t that hot and John didn’t severely burn his hand- just a little bit on the skillet, but it was enough to throw him off balance. He cursed loudly at his stupidity and just like that he felt himself slipping up into an in-between-mindset (which annoyed him even more than his clumsiness). He clutched his hand and cursed some more. Greg- who had been occupied with coffee- was at his side in a flash, turning the heat off and prying John’s fingers from his tight grasp around the burned spot.

“Let me see,” he urged, already pulling the hand underneath the cold water-spray from the faucet. John let himself be manhandled, although somehow reluctantly.

“It’s nothing, I just didn’t pay attention,” the doctor mumbled, not really understanding why he tried to make Greg mother-hen less about him, when that was the premise of the whole babysitting-thing. “I’m being fucking stupid,” he concluded, not sure himself if he referred to the small injury or the change in his own behavior. Either way, it felt like suddenly there was this whole hole of self-consciousness again, swallowing him. He was an _adult_. A trained doctor. A soldier. And he burned himself on a fucking skillet like an idiot in front of his friend.

“Language,” Greg chided him, which made John blush hotly. Big him was swearing with Greg _all the time_. His mind was giving him different signals on how to go on in this situation and it confused him. Part of him wanted to let himself be doted and the other part was embarrassed by it- like Greg would think he was a whiney baby if he would let him take care of the burn (it didn’t even hurt anymore).

“Well, it’s true,” John continued, voice quivering a little in frustration. He had just begun to feel fine while being little around Greg and now his own clumsiness made him doubt everything again. It was like suddenly, the elephant on his shirt morphed into the real thing and sat heavily on his chest. It was constricting and overwhelming- and he really, really missed Daddy. The realization almost knocked the air out of his lungs.

 

“I should just be big,” he pressed out between gritted teeth, although he actually didn’t really want that and even the suggestion made him kind of sad. Still. He was being a baby and he couldn’t let Greg see him be a baby. He should be able to heat his own fucking milk. And go a fucking day without missing Sherlock.

Greg, who had turned out the faucet and now dabbed the area dry didn’t look at him and didn’t stop his task. He was real gentle about it, too. Like it wasn’t fucking stupid that John had burned himself.

“You should not do anything unless you want to do it.” He finally looked up and John felt less miserable when he only saw kindness in Greg’s eyes. The elephant got off and left (he still missed Daddy, though).

“Either way, even big boys can be silly and not pay attention. You know that, of course. You are a big boy after all, right champ?” John knew that Sherlock gave Greg an introductory lecture in age-play (and more specifically age-play with him) and although, yes, he was a little bit pissed about it (he could vividly picture Sherlock pressuring Greg to take notes on things that were sensitive and intimate) it now relieved him that Greg _knew_ that he wasn’t a baby. It was a stupid thing, but it worked for him. It always worked for him.

“Hug?” he asked instead of answering. He felt instantly less lost when he was hugged tightly, the familiar smell of Greg’s cologne and pancakes clinging to the older man’s shirt calmed him. He rubbed his cheek against the spot of flour on his friend’s collar from their earlier flour fight.

“I’m sorry for being difficult,” his voice was muffled, but it was blatantly obvious that he was already slipping again, only a trace of big John lingering in his tone.

“You’re not,” Greg assured him kindly. Greg was always nice and kind, even John was being weird and stupid like now.

“I miss Sherlock,” John admitted then, because he couldn’t stop himself (and because he was sure that Greg would be nice and kind about this, too). Still, he couldn’t bring himself to use the word “Daddy” in front of Greg.

The hold around him tightened. “I know, buddy. Why don’t we have a look if he texted while we’re eating?”

That alone made John feel loads better.

Turned out, Sherlock had texted Greg, after all. Greg made a big show of reading it out loud to John, imitating Sherlock’s tone and intonation in a ridiculous manner, which made the little doctor snort around his mouth full of pancakes.

 

Things got easier, then. John seemed to have gotten over his apprehension of being little around Greg and the skillet incident was nothing more than a distant memory when they settled comfortably around the coffee table to play some rounds of various board games (after crafting the perfect reply to Sherlock’s text, naturally, out of fear Sherlock would explode in a ball of nerves if they didn’t). Playing with Greg was a lot more fun than playing with Daddy, John decided, because with Greg John actually had a shot at winning fair and square (not like the pity-wins Sherlock gave him when he could be persuaded to play with him). Thinking about his Daddy made John’s chest tighten momentarily, but he managed to breathe the sadness away. Him and Greg were having fun and that was all that mattered.

They played well into the afternoon, enthralled by the games’ charm and each other’s friendly company. The relentless pitter-patter of rain and the smell of pancakes still lingering in the air created a cozy atmosphere. Greg mentally congratulated himself on a job well done (so far). As expected, he and John got along well no matter if big or little and Greg had to admit himself that he was having a lot of fun hanging out with his little buddy (and secretly already hoped that he’d get the chance to interact with little John more often from now on).

When both of their movements were becoming more sluggish and their gaming less enthusiastic, Greg figured they could use a little break. He nudged his foot against John’s, making the little doctor look up from the Ludo board he was just putting back into its box.

“Wanna watch a movie? Maybe have some snacks?” He figured they would not need a big lunch because of the late breakfast; some snacks and an early dinner would do just fine (and Sherlock specifically told him that he didn’t care how, as long as John remained well-fed).

“Can it be a Disney movie?” John asked, tone hopeful.

“It can be whatever you want,” the DI replied, ruffling his friend’s already tousled hair (it had grown a little longer over the past months. John usually kept it styled and neat, but now it was wildly standing up in all directions).

 

While Greg cut up some apples and carrots into bite-sized pieces, he remembered something relatively important which he had neglected up to this point. Greg took a deep breath and carefully kept his tone light when he called into the living room, where John was already perched up in a nest of blankets on the floor.

“John? Did you use the bathroom?”

It was, as Sherlock described it, a sensitive topic to John but John’s therapist had strongly advised them to make bathroom-reminders part of their age-play routine. Greg didn’t know much about the trouble surrounding this issue (and honestly, it was none of his business), but he knew that breaching it would be unpleasant for John- but the possibility of an accident was even more so. There was a moment of complete silence that somehow felt defeating, which stretched even as Greg entered the room and placed the snacks on the coffee table. John wasn’t looking at him, but the skin around his collar and cheeks turned a bright red colour. Greg felt actually sorry for the poor guy. But Ella’s orders were Ella’s orders.

“Do you think you could try, before we start the movie?” The DI prompted further, picking up the remote to make this situation seem totally casual. Which it totally wasn’t but… you know. Greg figured it was what a good babysitter would do. Acknowledging the awkwardness would only make John feel worse about himself than he already did in that moment (if his slightly shaking hands were anything to go by). Another slow moment went by and Greg mentally prepared himself for the scenario that John would bail for real this time, calling this whole thing off over a toilet break.

He flipped through the different movie options to busy himself while John fought a quiet battle in his own head. Eventually, the little doctor stood- but instead of fleeing from the scene, he trotted obediently to the bathroom.  As soon as he was out of sight, Greg let out a massive breath. He already worried about bed-time when the issue would rise again, but more strongly perhaps. Sherlock had told him not to push the pull-ups if John really didn’t want to wear them, but he would definitely sleep better if he did, considering it was a new situation where John was feeling insecure about himself.

 

John washed his hands and willed the feeling of inadequacy as far down as he could. When Greg mentioned it, he had realized he really needed to go, bad enough that he might have lost control if he waited much longer. He tried not to feel defeated by this, but he really, really was. Ella had been nice about it (not even acknowledging that John wanted to _die_ during the session where he, and Sherlock for backup, breached the subject), had explained to him that it would take time for him to adjust to the different sensitivity to his needs in his headspace. It all had seemed pretty reasonable, then, but John still felt awful that he had to struggle with _this_ , out of all things. He splashed the water in the sink around a bit, trying to distract himself from all the negative thoughts pushing into his mind- thoughts that were hurtful and left him vulnerable and useless.

He had almost wet himself in front of his best mate.

But he didn’t.

That had to be worth something, surely?

He huffed a little when he caught his own eye in the mirror and wrapped the cardigan a little tighter around himself. It was a little too big for him, hanging off his frame- making him look small. Well. As small as an adult male of average height could look. He pulled the sleeves over his hands and let the sensation of the soft wool against his palms calm him. The desire to bury his face into teddy’s (the name had stuck, despite it being the most uncreative thing ever) fur tugged around in his belly. Would Greg judge him if he came back from his bathroom break with a stuffed toy? It seemed like such a baby-ish thing to do, and he wanted to prove to Greg that he was a big boy. But… but Ella always said comfort items were called like that for a reason, and he could use some comfort just about now.

 

When John returned to the living-room, Greg had narrowed their choices down a bit to his personal favorites (as far as he could recall; He held fond memories of Disney movies, his girls had watched them religiously while growing up).

“Good boy,” the DI praised quietly, remembering that John responded well to this kind of positive encouragement. He also noticed the bear his friend was now clutching, indicating that he perhaps felt littler than he had before. It was fine with Greg either way.

“I see you brought a friend, the more the merrier.”

John hid a small blush against the bear’s fur but giggled quietly. He had settled comfortably in his nest of blankets, back leaning against the couch where Greg was sitting.

“Which of these do you guys want to watch?” He indicated to the screen with the remote. John chewed his lip in a moment of complete concentration (which was just the cutes thing, especially since he also did it when he was big).

“Never seen _Lion King_.”

“That, my friend, is frankly tragic and I cannot let that stand.” (He himself only remembered it vaguely, but little John seemed to really enjoy it when he was acting silly.)

John giggled some more into the soft fur.

Greg grinned to himself. He _totally_ got this. What could go wrong with Disney?

 

Fucking fratricide, apparently. Well. He forgot about that one. Thanks, Disney.

It wasn’t anything graphic, but the built-up was even making Greg feel heart-broken for poor Lion-dad. Sucked to be stabbed in the back like that. When poor little Lion-son was wandering around at the scene of the crime, Greg’s attention instantly switched to the little guy on the floor. John had taken a liking to the movie quickly, seemed to enjoy the catchy tunes and colorful animations. He had been shifting every now and again, snacking and playing with the bear in his lap absent-mindedly. When the fall was presented on screen, all movement suddenly stopped. It didn’t take a genius to piece together what John was thinking in that very moment and for a second, Greg felt awful for even suggesting this movie.

“Buddy?”

John tore his eyes away from the picture of the little lion running up to his dad and- yep, there was this glazed over shine in them with which Greg was all too familiar with from the dark months where Sherlock had been gone.

“This part is a bit sad. Do you want to cuddle while watching?”

Instead of answering, John quickly got up on the couch, burying himself and teddy against Greg’s side. His friend was warm and strong, it helped to distance himself from thoughts of his own Daddy being dead which tried to suffocate him. When it was over, Greg’s arms stayed right where they were, holding him close. It made him forget the sad thoughts long enough to enjoy the rest of the movie.

 

However, when the credits rolled, some of the sadness tried to seep back into his heart. Greg still held him and he still held teddy- yet he suddenly felt lost and unsure of his headspace. And the part about Simba’s daddy had been really _really_ sad. It reminded him of the crippling depression that was still haunting him to this day, of all the guilt and anxiety and weight on his chest, the reason why he was so broken now, so dysfunctional as an adult that he pretended to be a kid to be alright. Well. Looks like the negative thoughts joined in on the fun of making John feel bad about himself.

“Greg?”

“Hm?”

“Can we text Daddy?”

There was a slight hitch in his friend’s breathing and John realized belatedly that he had referred to Sherlock as “Daddy” instead of using his name like he had the whole time before. But it was true. It wasn’t Sherlock he wanted right now. It was Daddy. And he wanted to make sure that Daddy was alright, as irrational as his fear might appear.

“Sure thing, champ.” Greg knew why he asked, too.

Greg’s reply pulled him out of his thoughts and before he knew it, he had Greg’s phone in his hand. His friend politely looked away, considering it was his phone and everything; but the bit of privacy made John feel a little bit better; it was embarrassing enough that he got so worked up over a movie.

He didn’t know what to type, the heightened emotional state made his brain slightly hazy. So, he settled for a straight-forward approach: ‘Hi D-’ (here, he hesitated over the keys, unsure if the direct address would only serve to worry Sherlock. He didn’t want that.)

But still. Sherlock had to know he texted him and not Greg, didn’t he?

 

‘Hi Daddy. Everything okay?’

The reply was almost instantaneous: ‘Hi, lovebug! I’m just fine. Are you alright?’ John thought he could read the ‘If it’s not, I’m leaving to take the next plane home’ in between the lines, but maybe he was just imagining things. Even more warmth than from the hug surrounded him. Just talking to his Daddy helped to ease a whole lot of the anxiety and sadness in his heart. He settled against Greg more comfortably.

‘Yes.’ Because it was true. He _was_ alright. Just a little bit worked up and needy. Well, that would sound very self-depriving if he phrased it like that. Instead, he added: ‘Just miss you.’

The phone pinged again: ‘I miss you, too. Especially now. This conference is so BORING.’ Attached to the message was a selfie from Sherlock, apparently sitting on the background on a stage of a very fancy venue. He was making a silly face. John chuckled and nudged Greg against the ribs so that his friend would see how silly his Daddy was. He felt Greg’s chuckle rumble deep in his chest.

“It’s a good look on him,” the DI commented (and made a mental reminder to send the selfie to John’s phone later).

‘But I have to go now, darling.’ John’s mood faltered a little in disappointment. They barley started texting!

‘I have to give my speech. I will call you once I’m back at the hotel. I love you!’

‘Love you, too.’

It was only a matter of an hour or two until he could properly talk with his Daddy, John told himself, and felt slightly less disappointed that their chat ended so abruptly. But Daddy was busy after all, otherwise Greg wouldn’t be here to babysit. John looked down at his friend’s big weather-beaten hands resting lightly against his shoulders and was overcome by a wave of deep affection. Greg was without a doubt the best person he and Sherlock had in their life (followed by, shockingly, the one and only Mycroft Holmes). The concept of family had always left a bitter-sweet aftertaste in his mouth, with all the disappointment and pressure that usually came with it. But now, with Sherlock and Greg (and maybe Mycroft if he wasn’t a prick), it was just sweet and he was _happy_. So, so happy.

“Shall we get started on dinner, hm?” Greg’s breath was warm against his hairline and was so pleasant that John started to smile like an idiot. Now that he started to think about his chosen family, he couldn’t stop and the happiness bubbling inside of him started to show all over his face. It was surreal, going from sadness to happiness so quickly, but he had accepted it as part of his little headspace. He tented to feel things much faster and much more intense.

“I was thinking spaghetti and meatballs. My ma had this amazing recipe-“ John, truth be told, wasn’t really listening as they got up and walked into the kitchen. Instead, he took Greg’s hand for a moment and swung their hands together in a carefree manner. The look on his friend’s face was priceless.

 

Dinner went by uneventful and (relatively) clean. Greg occupied himself with the dishes while the little doctor lounged around on the couch, pretending to watch some interior design show on the telly, when he really just waited for Greg’s phone (placed on the coffee table for immediate access) to ring.

When it did, he almost dropped it in his excitement to answer the call.

“Good evening, John, love.”

The sound of his partner’s voice- even a little bit fainter, a little bit far away- uncoiled something inside of John’s chest. He exhaled slowly and allowed the warmth to wash over him. Sherlock’s voice sounded like coming home after a long day, like the smell of wood in the fireplace, like a dollop of honey in warm tea.

“Hey,” he answered softly, a smile tugging on his lips. He was sure Sherlock could hear it, too. “Sherlock… Daddy.”

“It’s so good to hear your voice.” John should have been prepared by now for the fact that sometimes Sherlock could be inexplicably sweet (and a bit of a mind-reader, too), but it still caught him off guard in the best kind of ways. The little doctor lay down on his back, fighting the urge to hug the phone close to his chest. He opted for teddy instead.

“Tell me everything about your day; mine has been dreary and long and _tedious_ ” (here, John could hear the sneer in Sherlock’s voice).

How could he deny such a request?

 

Long after all the dishes had been put away, Greg was simply standing in the doorway to the living room, watching the phone conversation. John was talking animatedly- more animatedly than he had ever heard him talk (while being sober)- with his teddy resting on his stomach and his legs stretched out, bare feet swaying in a carefree manner. Everything about John was carefree and at ease in that very moment. Greg still remembered how often he had found his friend on that very same couch crumbled in on himself, muttering about still making two cups of tea, despite the fact that Sherlock was gone forever.

It felt like forever ago, now. And it also felt like a different man, a man no longer lost in pain and sorrow. John looked younger like this, _healthier_. This age-play thing surely worked wonders on him, the crinkled worry lines all over his face had smoothed out when he was smiling (for a while, Greg had been worried that John might never manage to be really happy again, with the way the weight of everything that had happened the past years pulled him down). A warm wave of pride washed over the DI as he watched John twirl a strand of grey-blonde hair around his index-finger while recounting the story of the lion king with impeccable accuracy. They’ve all been in some really dark places, for so long. But they managed to get through and come out stronger in the end. Some light in their lives had been way overdue.

Greg chuckled quietly at his own sappy thoughts (it was true, though) as he made his way over to the couch, slumping down in John’s chair and listening to the one-sided conversation. John nudged him with his foot once or twice when his narrative arrived at parts that had remotely to do with Greg (like the time he laughed so hard about one of the stupid puns Timon made that he almost chocked on his drink). Greg grinned contently and threw in a comment once or twice to make his friend laugh. Simultaneously, he discreetly answered the texts Sherlock had started to send him about ten minutes into the conversation; asking if there were any difficulties and how John had taken the whole thing (always the helicopter parent, that Sherlock Holmes. It was a thought that bemused Greg out of its sheer absurdity).

When the call was coming to an end (he could tell by the way John scrunched up his nose and his tone lost some of its enthusiasm), he ruffled the little doctor’s hair, so he wouldn’t feel so bad about it.

He still looked pretty heart-broken, though.

Despite the fact that they already had a dessert for breakfast, Greg couldn’t bring himself to deny the little guy his shy request for ice-cream, not when he was looking at him like the separation anxiety would be tearing him apart any minute.

When not even ten minutes later, said heartbroken, anxiety-ridden, little guy giggled about the hideous wall colour choices in aforementioned interior design tv show, Greg wondered with bemused annoyance if he had been played.

 

As bed-time drew nearer and nearer, Greg felt himself getting more and more antsy. Sleep was an issue with John he was way too familiar with- sadly this time wouldn’t be the first where he had to watch over his friend’s sleep, but he tried to put these depressing images as war away from the current situation as he could. He was supposed to be the caregiver here, after all. He could dwell on unpleasant memories some more on his own time (something he did not as frequent as he used to, but probably still too much to be considered 100% healthy).

He could tell his little buddy was getting very tired as his eyes dropped every so often and his breathing evened out. Considering the busy day they’ve had (not to mention the mental effort of being confronted with a completely new and vulnerable situation), it really came as no surprise.

What came as a surprise was the fact that when Greg touched John’s arm and told him it was time to get ready for bed, the little didn’t fight him (Greg had been pretty convinced he would meet quite a lot of resistance).

 “C’mon, let’s get ready in our jim-jams.”

John only yawned and nodded, leaning heavily on Greg’s shoulder as they both stood up.

“Do you want some help?”

“Big boy,” came the tired reply.

“Alright then, big boy.”

Just as John was crossing the threshold of the bathroom door, Greg decided to bite the bullet.

“Don’t forget to use the toilet, buddy.”

The doctor froze. He seemed instantly more alert now. Greg felt really, really bad that he brought this up again just as they were getting all nice and cozy but Sherlock had been very clear on this issue. Still, it didn’t make the thing he was about to say next any easier.

“And your Daddy suggested you might want to wear a pull-up tonight? Just to feel extra-save.”

Greg closed his mouth and counted the beats of his own heart quietly. John was _struggling_ with this, it was blatantly obvious from the way his posture suddenly sagged in on itself. Greg could only imagine how it must feel to trust somebody else with this part of one’s own personality. It wasn’t like Greg cared either way if John sometimes had bathroom troubles or not, but he knew that John cared about what other people thought of him, an awfully lot. John Watson was at his core a very proud person and admitting having problems with bladder control must feel like admitting defeat. Sherlock had told him that John had developed a down-right fear of being perceived as baby-ish. And the thing with the pull-ups was undoubtedly feeding into that fear.

“I’m not a baby.” There it was.

“Sure you aren’t, champ. You’re my big buddy.”

Greg fought the urge to pull him in for a hug, unsure if his affections would be welcome right now. After all, it seemed like there was an absolute riot going on in John’s mind.

“But…but if I…if I wear them-“ Here, the doctor’s voice cracked, now distinctively older, wavering in-between little and big. He was looking at anything but at Greg.

“You’re still a big boy. And still my best mate. That doesn’t change a thing, John, honestly.”

The way John worried his lower lip between his teeth reminded Greg of all the times big John had done the same in uncomfortable situations. John had been so stable and happy in his headspace before, Greg would dread if he was pushed out of this carefree state over something so miniscule.

 

“Greg, this is…” _too much_. “I shouldn’t need…” _but I do_.

John felt like he was being _crushed_ by something. He didn’t want anyone else to know. He somehow thought Sherlock would leave out this particular detail, but _of course_ , why would he, it was an essential part of their age-play by now. He didn’t need pull-ups, strictly speaking. He had the accident thing under control when he was little, at least most of the time. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose or anything… it wasn’t like he didn’t realize it when he had to _go_ … but when he was feeling insecure and more vulnerable than usual (which was now), he got unsure of himself, and when he got unsure he began to get antsy and panicky over this sort of thing and then it most likely happened (like a stupid self-fulfilling prophecy).

He didn’t want to wear pull-ups in front of Greg.

But he also didn’t want to wet the bed when Greg was staying overnight. This was the kind of humiliation which almost sent him into a panic attack while just thing about it. He couldn’t… he just couldn’t, nope, not an option.

“Do you want a big hug to make all the bad feelings go away?”

More. Than. Anything.

He buried his face against Greg’s flannel shirt, shielding his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to escape from the situation to gather himself again. Greg- praise his heart- just held him, patient and gentle and _still kind_.

“I didn’t want you to know,” he murmured against the warmth, feeling light and miserable at the same time. He had wanted Greg to take care of him. Nevertheless, he had trouble with accepting what this would entail, even if it was Daddy and him. This…this was a very big step. And very scary, too.

“It’s gonna be alright, little guy, I promise. We got this, you and me.”

The words were like a blanket wrapping around him, providing him with the encouragement he desperately needed. It would be _alright_. He could _trust_ Greg with this.

“Okay,” he agreed quietly, then, before he could talk himself out of it. Truth was, he craved the comfort of a pull-up tonight, knowing that even though _if_ he lost control, it wouldn’t matter as much.

“There’s a good lad,” his friend praised gently.

 

John was standing in front of the well-lit bathroom mirror (which he tried to avoid at occasions, for the lamp-light was harsh and unforgiving), with his pull-up safely hidden beneath his colorful striped little pajamas, John even felt a little bit proud of himself.

He was facing his insecurities and he didn’t even have a major break-down about it (only a little one). He had the feeling that Daddy would be proud tomorrow, if he told him. And Ella would be proud, too. Progress was a curious thing. Even the smallest steps felt like big leaps. It was nice to allow himself to feel good about the things he accomplished again. He hadn’t in a very long time. Before he and Sherlock started age-playing, John didn’t even notice how pessimistic and self-deprecating his attitude towards himself had become. But now, it seemed like everyday, he liked that guy looking back at him in the mirror a little bit more (he was an alright dude, after all). When he had rinsed out his mouth, he gave himself a little smile. The guy in the mirror smiled right back.

 

An hour later, John was laying in the dark, staring up at the ceiling of their bedroom. He was warm and cozy underneath the blankets, with teddy next to him and the pillows still smelling like Sherlock. Still, sleep didn’t come to him. He had been so tired in front of the telly, but now he felt wide awake. He even had been tired not even twenty minutes ago, when Greg had finished up the story, he was telling him about the time he sneaked a puppy into his room way back in his police academy days. It was a fun story and Greg had told it really well, changing his voice and waving his hands around to emphasize certain points (somewhere in the back of his little headspace, big John made a reminder to tell his friend that his daughters could be happy to have such an awesome father).

Nevertheless, John couldn’t sleep.

Ah, sleep.

He has a complicated relationship with sleep.

PTSD made it hard to sleep sometimes. The nightmares were enough to make him swear off sleeping until he couldn’t bear it anymore. Then it got better, when he started running around London all day and his body was physically tired out. Sleep was bliss on those days. When everything… changed… his sleeping habits became very unhealthy again. It was like every time he closed his eyes he could see Sherlock in front of him. It was good to see him, John missed him terribly. It was when he slowly started to forget how Sherlock’s voice sounded like, that he couldn’t bear closing his eyes anymore. As long as he was awake, he would be able to let go.

But he never did.

And now, it didn’t even matter. Sherlock was back and right there with him.

Well, except he wasn’t.

Not right now.

Huh.

Maybe… that was the problem.

 

Greg propped his legs up at the coffee-table and treated himself to an ice-cold can of ginger ale. After their wonky start, the day turned out amazing and he congratulated himself on a job well done. He sank into the couch, content with himself and the world, getting immersed in some soccer game on the telly. His favored team was playing.

Shortly after the game started, the bedroom door creaked open, and a very disheveled looking John Watson (accompanied by teddy, wrapped in a blanket cocoon and bare feet) padded over to the couch.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Greg asked, trying to sound strict but just came off as amused. “It’s bed-time, John.”

“But… but… uh, I totally wanted to watch that game, too.”

It was a very bad excuse. It was so bad that it made Greg smirk. “Really? Who you’re rooting for, then?”

“The…uh… the red ones?”

“Nice try.”

John had the decency to look slightly bashful for his bad lying skills. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, John pretending to watch soccer and Greg watching John. When he suddenly found a blanket cocoon with a head leaning heavily against him, he decided to be the responsible adult here (somebody had to be).

“Alright, champ, what’s really going on? Why aren’t you sleeping? And no more lies, you’re dreadful at lying.”

The cocoon was quiet for ten long heartbeats.

“….lonely.”

Greg suppressed a quiet coo. John really was the cutest thing when he was little.

“Can I stay up with you? Please? I can age up if you want-“

“You’re not worming your way out of bed-time, buddy.”

The cocoon looked defeated (and Greg wanted to coo some more). It not very subtly snuggled closer (and also not very subtly froze when the obscured pull-up made the tiniest of crinkling noises, Greg pretended not to have heard).

“You really miss your Daddy, hm?”

“Yeah….” John began to trace the pattern on Greg’s sleeve with his finger. “But, like, you’re _great_ at this, I just-“

“No worries, buddy, I totally get it.” He ruffled his friend’s hair affectionately.

“Can you sleep next to me tonight?” As soon as the request left his mouth, John realized what he just said. “Wait, no, I’m making this weird, I’m sorry, forget it, I didn’t say anything-“ At this rate, he would be out of headspace in no time. The fuzzy feeling of little-ness already gave way to a clear, adult embarrassment.

Greg laughed. But not _at_ him. This man was full of surprises.

“Sure thing, buddy.”

Man, this age-play stuff really was a rewarding thing.

 

Greg still pondered about how rewarding it was, when he shouldered his overnight bag and stood in the door to 221B, witnessing the probably longest welcoming-hug in the history of spending only one night apart. Trust Sherlock to be dramatic like that.

But then John hugged _him_ good-bye and then _Sherlock_ (!) hugged him and Greg suddenly didn’t mind all the dramatics that much, if such amazing hugs came out of it. His heart felt full and light when he stepped out in the rain-heavy morning air. In his car, he started to whistle along with the radio.

Somehow, he didn’t believe it was the last time he’d get to spent with his little buddy.

He was the world’s best babysitter, after all.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also, this is not proof-read whatsoever (feel free to point out mistakes, yay!).  
> Also, isn't Greg just the best? (I love him. He is, like, such a wholesome character in an age-play setting). The next part is already planned and it will feature the one and only Mycroft Holmes (whoooooo's excited? :DDD)
> 
> Also, people who made suggestions, do not fear, I did not forget about you and will try my best to incorporate them in the next fic.
> 
> UPDATE: If anyone feels inspired to write the zoo-story which I've been hinting at here, please do! 
> 
> As always, thank you guys so much for reading and leaving kudos/bookmarks/comments. It makes my day, you have no idea. Take care, y'all <3


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